r; you don't look, sir, as if you were perfectly
recovered. {203}

[_Here Archer talks to Lady Bountiful in dumb show_.

_Aim_. That I shall never be, madam; my present illness
is so rooted that I must expect to carry it to my
grave.

_Mrs. Sul_. Don't despair, sir; I have known several in
your distemper shake it off with a fortnight's
physic. {209}

_Lady Boun_. Come, sir, your servant has been telling me
that you're apt to relapse if you go into the air:
your good manners shan't get the better of ours--
you shall sit down again, sir. Come, sir, we don't
mind ceremonies in the country--here, sir, my
service t'ye.--You shall taste my water; 'tis a
cordial I can assure you, and of my own making--
drink it off, sir.--[_Aimwell drinks_.] And how d'ye
find yourself now, sir?

_Aim_. Somewhat better--though very faint still. {219}

_Lady Boun_. Ay, ay, people are always faint after these
fits.--Come, girls, you shall show the gentleman the
house.--'Tis but an old family building, sir; but
you had better walk about, and cool by degrees,
than venture immediately into the air. You 'll find
some tolerable pictures.--Dorinda, show the gentleman
the way. I must go to the poor woman below. [_Exit_.

_Dor_. This way, sir.

_Aim_. Ladies, shall I beg leave for my servant to wait on
you, for he understands pictures very well? {231}

_Mrs. Sul_. Sir, we understand originals as well as he
does pictures, so he may come along.

[_Exeunt all but Scrub, Aimwell leading Dorinda.
Enter Foigard_.

_Foi_. Save you, Master Scrub!

_Scrub_. Sir, I won't be saved your way--I hate a priest,
I abhor the French, and I defy the devil. Sir, I 'm
a bold Briton, and will spill the last drop of my
blood to keep out popery and slavery.

_Foi_. Master Scrub, you would put me down in politics,
and so I would be speaking with Mrs. Shipsy. {240}

_Scrub_. Good Mr. Priest, you can't speak with her; she's
sick, sir, she's gone abroad, sir, she's--dead two
months ago, sir.

_Re-enter Gipsy_.

_Gip_. How now, impudence! how dare you talk so
saucily to the doctor?--Pray, sir, don't take it ill;
for the common people of England are not so civil
to strangers, as--

_Scrub_. You lie! you lie! 'tis the common people that
are civilest to strangers.

_Gip_. Sirrah, I have a good mind to--get you out I say.

_Scrub_. I won't. .